Providence
by the anomaly
Summary: "Peace. It is a providence, and no great change; we are only what we always were-" Sam entertains possibilities, Dean has unsavoury habits and everything is inevitable. A biennial chronicle of the teenage years of Sam Winchester. Warnings: Incest and drug references. Spoilers for 5x20.


**Disclaimer:** Not real, not mine, not making money from this.

 **A/N** : References to Arthur Miller's _The Crucible_ , L. Frank Baum's _The Wizard of Oz_ , Hugh Laurie's "Mystery" and _Hamlet_.

Someone ought to tell them that witches do exist. Yeah, there's herd instinct, subtle invasions of the mind that snowball into mass hysteria, a Sisyphus in reverse, the impressionability of youth and the all-consuming black hole that is the repressed sexuality of teenage girls, but as a matter of fact, there _are_ witches. Truly. Sam had spent his fourteenth birthday holding Dean's head over the toilet and watched as the grimy porcelain was stained red while his brother retched, so he knows.

But for now he reads aloud in a cool, unconcerned voice as the teacher nods his approval. John Proctor's just come back from the fields, his wife has made some terrible rabbit stew which said John Proctor downs with a smiling face, refusing to admit how terrible said stew actually is. The entanglement of expectation, disappointment and despair is something Sam supposes he can relate to. Dad waving him off to school this morning, trying to do right by his two boys but only leading them deeper into the mire, Dean pale under the covers, burning with fever, and Sam hoisting his backpack over one shoulder and hovering at the door. _I mean to please you, Elizabeth._ His father is out trying to gank some witch and his brother's just about coughed up two rusty nails and Sam is expected to be content with the intrigues surrounding the town of Salem. He should be out there, skewering the fucking bitch, doing research amongst dusty tomes, basically anything except the dramatic role-playing he is apparently carrying out to perfection. His knuckles whiten. Still, Sam lives, draws breath and reads on, his voice even and measured, now rising for emphasis, now softening when necessary, until the teacher says thank you Sam, and he shuts up.

There are limitless possibilities, infinite outcomes, and Sam entertains them all. He could trudge back to the motel and find Dean lifeless in bed. Or the fever could have broken just before the end of Math period and the dismissal bell could ring and Dean would be there by the gates, chatting up some senior. He could be leaning casually against the door of the Impala or no, with a cocky grin plastered on his face or no, in that too-large leather jacket or still sweating through the third flannel shirt Sam had changed him into since last night. Sam considers all these possibilities intently. He already knows how _The Crucible_ ends; the only thing that hangs in the balance is not Proctor's good name but his brother's life.

School draws painfully to a close. There is no Dean standing sentry by the gates, revving the engine as he beckons him into the car with an impatient wave of the hand. So much for that. Sam takes the bus back to the motel and cracks open the door.

The bed is empty.

For a moment Sam does not know what to expect. Here before him is one possibility he has failed to take into consideration.

"Sam?" A little gruff, perhaps, but unmistakably Dean, winding its way to him from the kitchenette. The clink of metal against metal, the smell of basil. _Basil?_

"Yeah," Sam answers, and it comes out faintly strangled. He clears his throat and tries again, "Yeah, it's me."

"We ganked the bitch."

"Yeah, I know." He points at Dean, up and about, _you're alive_. "Where's Dad?"

"Out with Bobby. Celebratory drinks and all."

Sam busies himself with his backpack. "You didn't go with?"

"Someone had to be here to feed this monster." Dean comes up with two bowls and sets them on the table. He groans a little as he eases into a chair.

"Shut up. Are you sure you're all right?"

"Yeah, Dad burnt the hex bags and," he spreads his arms, "See? Right as rain."

Sam makes a disbelieving, non-committal grunt.

"I'm good," Dean says, his mouth half-full of stew.

"Your stomach's made of pewter, you know."

"Ding ding!" Dean chimes as he pats his belly. That witch's hex must have had some vestigial effect on Dean's terrible sense of humour, because Sam can't help but laugh. Irony is only possible with distance. Dean's just glad to be alive. Sam's just glad Dean's alive. Dean will regret eating two hours later when his stomach will heave everything up again. Sam will spend the evening scrubbing the toilet spotless because it will make him feel better. For now he opens _The Crucible_ and takes a tentative spoonful of the stuff Dean has set in front of him.

"You know, it's not bad."

"Told ya."

Dean makes off to the kitchen for some salt and Sam gathers up all the courage he can muster.

"Dean?"

"Yes?"

Sam takes a deep breath, and the next sentence tumbles out before he can censor it, "Do you ever think about running away?" Fortunately he's got food in his mouth, and Dean's a little out of hearing shot, and he's said it way too fast so it comes out like dyaerthinboutrunninay. Or something. Part of him is serious and hopes Dean will say yes. They will pack their bags and be gone by morning, hunting be damned. The other part of him wants to die of shame.

Dean lumbers back to the table. He's still a little unsteady on his legs. "What's that?"

Sam imagines Dean's mouth falling sullen, the evening spoiled. He also imagines a life without vengeance, riding shotgun with his brother, nothing but a camping trip's supplies in the trunk. In that space between breaths both outcomes are possible. "Nothing," he lies, as he turns back to his book and flips a page.

"Sam. Always the scholar." Dean dips a finger into the gravy and draws it over the words. There's now a ghastly streak of reddish-brown across the page. _Peace. It is a providence, and no great change; we are only what we always were-_

"Fuck off." Sam feigns annoyance but is secretly pleased. He tweaks the book away from Dean, grabs his bowl of stew and heads for the couch.

Dean sighs and slouches back into his chair. He chews thoughtfully. "Now that's more like it."

* * *

Sam sews a neat line of fifteen stitches down Dean's thigh. It's Halloween. He's sewing up his brother's leg while his classmates dress up as ghosts and mummies and neon green zombies. They don't tell you that real zombies are actually pretty nifty with a machete. In school somebody had pretended to be possessed and spewed pea soup all over the cafeteria floor as people gathered round in a circle to cheer and clap. What would happen if Dean got possessed one day? Sam pauses, needle in hand. Wouldn't he be sewing up his brother's meat-suit? The helpful part of his brain tells him, no big, it's only another costume. Maybe, maybe even Dean will sew up his. Does that mean he has to get possessed first? Sam snips off the excess dental floss and dresses the wound.

"You're all set," he rises up to put away the scissors and things.

"Wait," Dean hops across the room and fishes a misshapen Mars bar out of his coat pocket.

"Trick or treat, Sammy."

"You know I hate Halloween."

"Yeah, well, I'm not asking you to dress up as Barbie," Sam glowers at him but Dean goes on, unfazed, "You're twelve. Live a little. Eat some candy. Have a fucking normal childhood for one day."

"I just sewed up my brother's leg. That is so not normal."

"Stop being a girl. Are you going to take this or not?"

Sam grabs the chocolate and stuffs it into the pocket of his jeans.

"Good." Dean leans back and closes his eyes. "God, what a day. Is there anything to eat?"

Sam tiptoes past the hall into the kitchenette. Dad's passed out on the couch. Sam prefers this version of his father. It's not often that they get him like this, quietly drunk instead of raving drunk, cursing at the world and the various misfortunes it has hurled their way. He rummages in the dingy fridge and comes up with a pair of rather sad-looking burritos, left over from yesterday's lunch. He tosses one over to Dean, who promptly unwraps and sinks his teeth into it. Sam considers the burrito in his hand for a moment, then makes a face and chucks it behind the six-pack. He watches as Dean chews and swallows, chews and swallows. A quadratic equation with two real roots intersects the horizontal axis at two points. Both values of x are equally probable. Dean is eating a stale burrito with an open mouth. Dean is lying dead in a ditch, slain by zombies. Sam thinks there might be a problem.

"You're alive, right? This is you, not some zombie version of your usual self?"

"What? I'm not-what, did you just say zombie?"

"Sorry, that was-that just came out-"

"I got you candy."

"Yes. I know this sounds stupid, but-"

"It sure fucking does."

"So?"

"What? Yes, I'm still alive. It's still me. If that's what you're asking. Jesus."

"Okay," Sam says, his fingers tight around the melted Mars bar, "okay."

* * *

They are digging a grave. Sam is sixteen, the age of gangly arms and too-long legs dangling from the edge of the motel bed, of hours of radio silence with his nose in a book, of solitary walks to the library under the guise of doing research when he's obviously headed someplace else. Dean marks the late nights and absent mornings and ill-humoured afternoons where Sam gets pissed and monosyllabic for no perceivable reason. Just moments ago he had mouthed off at Dad, who had assigned them the gracious task of grave-digging after sundown. Dad had stalked off after delivering a stinging slap to Sam's face, and the boy hadn't even blinked, just glared back with moistened eyes. Dean had hung back, feeling sorry but not sorry enough to intervene.

Now that they are alone, Dean asks him in mid-swing of the shovel, hey are you in menopause, but Sam doesn't even bother gracing that with an answer, merely puts his shoulders to work as he hauls clods of earth out of the grave they're working on. What are we digging graves for, exactly? Sam had asked their father, who gave a variant of because I told you so, which Sam flat out refused as an adequate reason, and what good did that do? They were still here, knee deep in dirt, shovelling away the time. Dean draws a hand across his forehead. Sam's hair is sweaty and matted and keeps getting into his eyes.

"Ugh. This is disgusting."

Dean claps his hands three times. _There's no place like home._ "Now you're talking."

"Yeah. Well. This is-it's not like there're bones to salt and burn or nothing."

This is Sam's twisted version of I'm sorry for being such an idiot earlier. Dean knows. He punches Sam lightly on the shoulder.

The night sky is cloudy and obscure. It's so quiet Dean can hear his blood drumming. Sam has his forearms resting on the level ground, just where grass meets empty grave, like it's a table and he could fall asleep standing. His face is mottled by shadow.

Dean taps him on the hip. "You could use a few pounds, man."

"You're giving me dietary advice. You."

"I'm just saying."

"Of all people," Sam scoffs.

"Fine. Do what you like." Dean places his hands on the ground and makes to leap out of the grave. He makes a half-hearted jump, then decides against it and sinks to his knees, sifts the soil between his fingers. Grave dirt is very interesting, if one were to look closely.

"What are you doing?"

Dean rises. "None of your fucking business."

"I thought that should have been my line. I'm the angry teenager, remember?"

Suddenly the tables have turned. Now Sam is needy, now he loosens the top-most button of his shirt, as if that were necessary. Now he puts an arm around Dean and clings. They are young and have no need for embarrassment. Years of patching each other up have made them familiar with the other's body. Also, the good thing about wanting to fuck your brother is that you can fast-forward the flirting. Sam, who had been peevish just moments before now teases, throws his head back and smiles that smile that makes Dean want to smack him, hard.

"So?"

Sam walks to the head of the grave and places his hands on his hips in mock irritation. "Well, I expect some fanfare. Flowers, chocolate, you know, the works."

"Don't be such a fucking prude."

"You're propositioning me in a _grave_."

"Who said I was-"

"You so were."

"Just. Shut up, Sam."

Sam tries to obey but his head refuses to comply. His brother makes quick work of belt buckles. He hates being a hunter. His father looks at him as though he is both a blight upon the earth and the most precious thing to be protected. _Insanitary_ , Hugh Laurie croons, _insanitary_. Sam can't help it. He bursts out laughing.

"What?" Dean stops, his fingers in the inconvenient position between Sam's jeans and bare skin.

"Won't we catch something? There's like a ton of microbes and worms and things in here."

"God, Sam. Just shut up will you?" He swings his brother around. For one so tall, Sam is strangely pliable. They are facing each other now. Sam's chest rises, falls, rises again. He's blushing. Dean wants to kiss the fucking colour from his face. The stupid boy.

"But, Dean-"

"Shut up. I'm warning you."

"What? What do you want? Just tell me-" and then Dean closes his mouth for him. Sam breathes, feels teeth, tongue, strong hands around his waist, circling. The world sways a little.

"Oh."

"Turn around."

"Dean."

Actually, it does kind of make sense. It's sort of like a fuck you to mortality, literally. Yorick would be proud. When Sam yells into the dark, there is but one thought in his mind, and that is of his brother, aged seven, taking his hand when he wakes up in the middle of the night from a dream of the man with the yellow eyes. Later, they will pack up the shovels and change out of those soiled clothes. Dean will take a long shower. Sam will leave the dirt under his fingernails, and remember.

* * *

Sam stuffs his clothes haphazardly into the haversack, t-shirts and sweats and Dean's checked plaid that he was supposed to send to the laundry together with the rest of the clothes but had forgotten to do so. He's not going to embarrass himself by crying now. He's not. This is stupid. This is so stupid. Button-downs, sweaters, the odd unpaired sock. Useless shit accumulated over the years. It's not like uncreased clothing is going to help him now. He empties the bag onto the bed and starts over. He conjures up all the beaming faces of parents waving their children off to college on those pamphlets and berates himself for coveting something he will never have. The acceptance letter is soggy from weeks of being clutched in his hands, pored over by Dean, dismissed by his father to the back of the cabinet and then painstakingly retrieved, covered in dust motes. This one thing he has earned by his own merit, his golden ticket out of wretchedness, this he swears to cling to come hell or high water. _Is it that hard, living with us?_ Yes, he had said, yes, it is. If I stay here any longer I am going to die either by a monster's or my own hand. It had never occurred to him that sometime in the future the two might be one and the same.

Dean had left the room then. It would have been easier if Dean had hit him. Sam had waited for Dean's fist to make contact with his jaw, waited and received nothing but wordless resignation. He might have borne pain better than disappointment.

For all his life Dean had doubted nothing, not his father's mission, nor his own resolve, least of all his brother's loyalty. Now he parts the curtain and looks out the window, like a fucking girl in the movies when the men have gone off to fight in the trenches, but it hardly matters now, does it, as he watches Sam's back recede further and further into the distance. With each step he thinks, Sam could turn back. They could shove his haversack under the bed and burn the acceptance letter and act like this had never happened. He wills Sam's feet to still, leans his forehead on the dirty pane when they show no sign of doing so. He might be crying but he would never admit it. Besides, there's no one to admit it to.

Sam never slows. Instead, he breaks into a run that accelerates even as his body begs him to stop. _Oh._ That was Dean's first word when Sam showed him the letter. Then, _is this some kind of joke?_ Months of planning, deliberations and oscillations between leaving and staying and leaving again, of filling up applications and gathering writing samples and seeking referrals in secret and Dean calls it a joke. His eyes smart but he doesn't even bother bringing a hand up to his face, for shame, for shame, Sammy. _Take a step out that door and never come back._ It's the only way to leave, his lungs burning with the pressing need for air that drives out all the thoughts from his head for a blessed moment, his legs hammering out his future as he sprints his life away, eighteen years of pent-up guilt and longing to be someone other than the one who caused it all. Though it was never said out loud it was there in Dean's small hands around a sawed-off shotgun, in the crooked line of Dad's mouth, in each pulse of blood that coursed through his veins that he so detested. He's sobbing now, stupid useless sentimentality, crying when he wants to laugh, a wanted man for being the freest he has ever felt.

So Sam runs, and runs, and tries to forget that he has left his heart behind.

* * *

Dean thinks about dropping by Stanford, giving Sam the once over, perhaps in secret, perhaps not, he doesn't trust himself with certainty, not when he hasn't seen his brother for more than a year and he does not know what his body will do when faced with the sight of Sam. Sam reading one of them thick books under a fucking tree. Sam running up the steps, two at a time because he's late for a lecture. Sam with a girl on one arm and a sweater looped carelessly about his neck, like a proper sophomore. God, his lack of imagination is embarrassing. Maybe he just doesn't want to see what he's been too much of a coward to fight for, a vibrant community of youths living out their normal, if hectic, lives. But this _is_ his life. He likes his life. Saving people, hunting things, doing what Dad has taught them all these years. Dad lets him hunt on his own now. The Impala is his. He's got a sweet ride and a mission, so what's there to miss? It's only right that he pays Sam a visit, just a courtesy call, a disinterested couple of minutes to see how the little shit's doing. Yeah, Dean decides, he's going to do it once he's finished with these shotgun shells. Then there are werewolves and vampires and, you know, things, and he puts it off a couple of days, a week, three months and Sam is relegated to the small hours of the night, a hand under the sheets and shadows under his eyes, another glass of whiskey and a guilty face in the morning.

As time passes Sam's silence can only mean one thing: that whatever transpired in their lives together had never happened, or was of little or no significance. The more Dean tries to exorcise the thought the stronger it stakes its claim on his mind, and for a brief moment he allows himself to admit that the main reason he stays away from Stanford is that he's nursing a grudge, like a fucking child at the playground being denied his go at the highest slide and refusing to play at all. But really it's just that he's busy, monsters to hunt and shifters to kill, the hauntings of other ghosts in other families taking precedence over his own. After all, Sam's got his own life now, an entire set of cares and preoccupations that have nothing at all to do with him, or hunting, or anything he truly knows about.

Sam thinks he is capable of separating his past as a hunter and his current role as a student. The aspiring lawyer, the one who raises incisive queries in tutorials, quick to laugh if only a little taciturn, a little awkward, the one you feel you shouldn't ask too many questions, if only to make him feel a little better. He spends the odd evening at the local bar, makes out with the cute girl from Art History, gets plastered and then some. He leaves the library without even a single book on the occult. Also, he meets Brady, who makes him feel safe with flawless recitations of human anatomy, superior vena cava, right atrium, tricuspid valve, right ventricle. Still, canisters of salt find their way into his pantry, as does an iron poker by the door (what's that for, Brady had asked, you don't even have a fake fireplace) and a baseball bat slid carefully beneath the bed. Sam draws the line at a gun under the pillow. He's not that fucking paranoid, thank you very much.

Then Thanksgiving, and the coke, Sam finding himself begging one moment and being disgusted the next, finding a girl in the bed, finding a man in the bed. And then Brady kisses him one day and tells him they're over.

It's quite a relief, actually.

Yet Sam hungers for something more. Not normalcy, now that he's won it. Truth is, he never thought that being safe would be so very bland. But boring is good, he tells himself, having a predictable life is a good thing. Maybe he's so used to danger that it takes him just that little while longer to get accustomed to civilian life. Brady's just swung by; he has that cavalier grin on his face that can only mean one thing. Sam thinks he might hazard a try.

"You know, we could-" Sam waves his hand vaguely. There has to be some word in the English language that's an umbrella term for getting back together, getting laid, getting dead drunk so that he'll forget that the man he's in bed with isn't Dean. For now his head is swimming, and eloquence evades him. He swallows and looks up.

"Nah. I'm bad news, remember?" Brady chuckles and exhales a breath that tickles before pressing his lips to the side of Sam's head, that sweet spot just above the temple. Sam shivers.

"So, how about we head for a drink, and go meet that girl I've been telling you about?" He swings a jacket over his shoulder and Sam thinks, _everything you're not_ , and lets himself be dragged from a half-written essay that's due in two days, from stolen freedom and mind-numbing worry and jumping at shadows to a half-formed dream of a family, cardboard cut-outs of a wife and children with dazzling smiles standing stiffly behind a white picket fence.


End file.
